


The End of the Sunshine Treatment

by ummmmm (sumhowe_sailing)



Category: Wooden Overcoats
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, angsty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 00:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14461473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/ummmmm
Summary: Just what it says in the title. (Season three was such a blessing for my angsty shippy heart)





	The End of the Sunshine Treatment

If there was quite literally one thing Rudyard Funn was absolutely certain he would never forget, it was the day Eric Chapman burst into his funeral parlor, pants around his ankles, shouting Rudyard’s name. Stunned and overwhelmed by this apparition, Rudyard yelped incoherently and nearly missed Chapman’s furious little rant.

“I’m so confused and sad and I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore! You’re the only person who might know what I’m going through. I don’t know what to do, Rudyard. I don’t know what to do.”

“Chapman, I can say to you unequivocally, as one man to another, pull your trousers up.”

And so began one of the most confusing, bittersweet afternoons of his life. He was a professional, of course, and wouldn’t allow petty triumph to interfere. He didn’t demand that Chapman repeat his admission of failure, for instance. He didn’t shout, or gloat. Instead, he gave a comprehensive, motivational pep talk. Really it was all going swimmingly until Antigone burst in and began berating them both. For once, Rudyard was on Chapman’s side—he thought they had both been doing rather well, in a way.

But then one interruption led to another, and the frantic energy evaporated, and suddenly—

“Well, that went as well as can be expected. Um, do you mind if I take a nap?” Chapman asked, looking at him sleepily, helplessly. Something welled up in Rudyard’s chest.

“Not on my favorite floor you can’t!”

“It’s just, I’m ever so slightly tired and…” Chapman trailed off, muttering and yawning as he sank to the floor.

“I don’t believe it!” Rudyard really couldn’t. Chapman, the Eric Chapman, after all that, after everything—already sleeping soundly on Rudyard’s floor, blond hair tumbling across his face, a warm flush making his cheeks practically glow—how dare he? “The nerve of the man! Chapman. Chapman!”

“Oh let him rest, Rudyard. Here, have a pen.”

“What for?”

“So you can draw a funny mustache on him.”

“Sometimes you really are my sister,” he beamed.

 

After he had taken Antigone’s excellent advice, he ran outside to find Georgie—she would love this. But Georgie was no longer in the mood for such trivial amusements. She wasn’t crying when he found her, but the look on her face—her stunned silence—he understood. He wasn’t usually the hugging sort, but it only felt right today to put an arm around her. Soon Antigone came out as well, and she was always better at this sort of thing, so after a few minutes he left the two of them and went back to Funn Funerals.

And there was Chapman, still curled up on his floor. Still looking so at ease in a place that had always been so hostile to him. Why had he come here? Here of all places? Rudyard wasn’t the only one on the island who’d ever experienced failure. He wasn’t even the only funeral director who’d been a failure. But Chapman hadn’t burst in shouting for Antigone or for Georgie. When he’d been in an absolute panic, confused and scared and alone, he’d come looking for Rudyard. But why? Why?

His head hurt too much to keep thinking about it. And he was sad enough anyway, even in spite of his small triumph, such as it was. Sad and tired. Come to think of it, a nap wasn’t a bad idea. It wasn’t ideal that his favorite patch of floor was currently occupied, but, well…there was room.

 

The sound of gentle rain gradually seeped into his sleeping mind, beckoning him back to the waking world. The floor was hard and uneven and dusty, but it wasn’t the worst place he’d ever woken up. And at least he was warm, wrapped comfortably around—hang on, that couldn’t be right. He forced his bleary eyes open. Sure enough, there he was. Rudyard Funn. Sleeping on the floor, curled beside him, in his arms. When had that happened? _How_ had that happened? Rudyard despised him, how had he… But did Rudyard despise him? Still? After everything that had happened recently? He’d tried to get him elected mayor, after all; and even though Eric felt that must have been some kind of twisted joke or scheme, he really had felt that Rudyard was less aggressively hostile towards him by the end of the campaign. And, well, maybe there wasn’t much else. Maybe all the little things he’d thought had been adding up had really all just been in his own head. Maybe they were still just rivals.

But here was Rudyard, sleeping in his arms. And Eric had felt so drawn to him when he’d—Oh God. Oh God, he’d really done that hadn’t he? And Rudyard had—been almost kind. As close to kind as he probably could be. He’d tried to help. His train of thought was derailed by the way Rudyard yawned and snuggled closer to him. Eric smiled, held him a little tighter. He would have time to think it all over later. For now, he nestled his face closer to Rudyard and drifted back to sleep.


End file.
